


Yes, Alpha

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Avengers UnPacked [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Omega Verse, Scenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22641445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: I had someone (ASHPAW113, THAT'S YOU) rec some A/B/O, and I won't lie, it was good, I enjoyed it.   So I cracked my knuckles and decided to have some fun, too.~~~“You’ve been doing what, pups?” growls Alpha and holy shit, Harley goes from uncomfortable to abject before he can even draw breath to scent the disapproval.  When he does, and it hits, his knees go a little shaky. He’s grateful they’re all seated, grateful he’s not close to Peter, who looks ready to pass out, because he can imagine the fear scent he’s pumping out and the feedback loop would be intense.“Whoa, no,” interjects Omega, with a hiss, “no throat-baring out here, we are not Pack right now, I mean it, Steve.  You can scruff him for being so damn stupid later, we’ll go home, but right now? Eat your dessert, scowl for the cameras.”  Tony flashes a relaxed, loose smile around the table and everyone stops staring at Harley and Peter to take vicious bites of their fancy torts.“We did want them to bond, be packsiblings,” says Bruce uncertainly, into the sudden silence.
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov, Darcy Lewis/Jane Foster/Thor, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Steve Roger/Tony Stark
Series: Avengers UnPacked [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623790
Comments: 33
Kudos: 162





	Yes, Alpha

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is what happens when I read a recommended story that turns into reading TEN A/B/O fics, find out that there are no RULES for this shit, and decide, "Well, fuck it, if everyone's having fun in this sandbox, I'm going to, too."
> 
> You don't have to like it, I promise. But I had a whole lot of fun writing it.
> 
> Beta'd by my brave jf4m and mindwiped, who are easily the most courageous people on the planet, because I threw this at them and said JESUS CHRIST I DON'T EVEN KNOW. I'M SORRY, and then they corrected my spelling and caught my errors like the pros they are, anyway. 
> 
> I've put links to the fics I read to learn about A/B/O in the end notes of the first story.
> 
> Every remaining mistake and all the broken things about the rules of this AU belongs to me. Me and 3 AM, baby.

“You’ve been doing _what,_ pups?” growls Alpha and holy shit, Harley goes from uncomfortable to abject before he can even draw breath to scent the disapproval. When he does, and it hits, his knees go a little shaky. He’s grateful they’re all seated, grateful he’s not close to Peter, who looks ready to pass out, because he can imagine the fear scent he’s pumping out and the feedback loop would be intense.

“Whoa, no,” interjects Omega, with a hiss, “no throat-baring out here, we are _not Pack_ right now, I mean it, Steve. You can scruff him for being so damn stupid later, we’ll go home, but right now? Eat your dessert, scowl for the cameras.” Tony flashes a relaxed, loose smile around the table and everyone stops staring at Harley and Peter to take vicious bites of their fancy torts.

“We did want them to bond, be packsiblings,” says Bruce uncertainly, into the sudden silence.

Natasha and Steve both vent a short growl that makes Peter flinch, which Harley almost misses because he drops his fork.

“Pick it up,” hisses Tony, clearly exasperated. “No one is gonna snap at you here, relax. You relax, too,” he tells his bonded, elbowing the alpha. “They’re clearly right here, safe as can be. That’s what matters right now. You can snarl the fear of Alpha into them the minute the limo doors close, but cool your jets or so help me, I’ll be forced to make a bigger scene for the paparazzi mutts to chase and you hate when I make problems bigger, Steve. Don’t force my hand.”

Steve bites into his tort and rips off a piece. Harley is abruptly not hungry, he has no desire to eat, absolutely none, but the thought of not eating and potentially setting off Steve is also not great. He compromises by _nibbling_.

“Ugh,” mutters Clint, “well, it was a decent cherry... thing. Now everything is rotten pineapple. How are you eating?” he asks Natasha, who shrugs and says, “I don’t mind singed marshmallow?” and takes another bite.

“Well, ugh,” says Clint stubbornly. “Be less miserable,” he tells Harley, which, yeah, no, Harley’s sitting next to a pissed off alpha, he’s gonna do what he needs to survive, fuck Clint’s dining experience. “They don’t have doggie bags at shindigs like this, I’ve asked, because someone’s always ruining my appetite with their feelings. This is why I hate coming to these things,” he announces to the table at large.

“Noted,” grunts Steve through gritted teeth. “Darling, pack a doggie bag for the beta in your handbag next time?” he says viciously to Omega and Harley just barely stops himself from whining because holy shit is Steve _pissed_.

“Oh-kay,” drawls Tony, leaning back and slightly to one side to eye his bonded. “I’ll allow it, because I was sassy first,” he declares slowly, licking his fork, sharp teeth on serious display for a second. “And I formally apologize for insisting we follow the rules you helped me to draft for the protection of our own.” Harley is not the only one wincing at the bite in his tone, which isn’t reassuring _at all_. “But if you want to leave immediately, we have plans for that, too, and all I need is a code, Alpha.”

“Rio,” says Steve shortly.

“Shit,” swears Clint, lifting the torte to his face and devouring it in fast bites.

“New Orleans,” counters Tony, and Steve shakes his head violently.

“Fairbanks,” suggests Natasha, setting her fork down neatly. Harley watches Peter nervously follow suit and lets his fork drop from nerveless fingers, too.

Tony’s face lights up, “Oh, yeah. Fairbanks! You three, or us?”

“Us,” chokes Clint. Natasha nods, and turns to Bruce, who turns bright red and says, “Oh, God. Seriously?” Natasha smiles brightly. “I’m not great at acting, though,” he tells her.

“So don’t act,” she purrs back, and his eyes glint for just a moment before he blows out a breath and leans over to whisper something in her ear.

Harley shifts, because whatever he’s saying, it’s sure taking a lot of time, and Natasha’s breathing has gone wild, her lips parted, before he pulls back. Peter shifts uncomfortably beside Natasha and that seems to set off a chain reaction of small movements that culminates, impossibly, with Bruce’s chair being kicked back by Natasha as he slides to his knees, her hands cupping his face, thumbs pressing against his scent pads, releasing extremely turned-on cinnamon into the nearby air, which mingles with the scent of buttered toast in an amazingly mouthwatering way. Harley chokes, because, that’s, that’s a lot of scent, it’s overpowering, and he can feel himself start to slick, _gross_.

One of the event coordinators rushes over, sniffs, and turns white, creeping around the couple, who are not doing anything, it seems, except looking at each other and releasing a scent so overpowering that the nearest circle of tables have all turned to watch the tableau. The coordinator approaches Steve deferentially, because okay, they might not be a pack, but no one has any illusions about who’s Alpha around Steve. It’s Steve. He’s Alpha. “Uh, honored Alpha, would your, uh, teammates be more comfortable…” suggests the coordinator in a voice that hesitates and trails off. Steve jerks his hand in a short gesture at Tony, obviously referring the man to his bonded mate.

“Oh, you know how it is, victory heats, they just jump up and grab you any old time,” says Tony enthusiastically, and Harley thinks, _oh, is that what this is?_ Victory heats always seem so mysterious, as only omega males have them. Alexander the Great comes to mind when Harley thinks about them, and his victory heat over Persia that lasted twelve days and probably spread syphilis to an entire continent before it was done. “Can’t predict them, the whole thing is crazy.” 

Peter is choking, shoving the tort into his mouth and gulping water from his glass as fast as he can. His eyes are wide, and while, yes, he looks adorable, he always looks adorable, he also looks terrified. He’s too far away for Harley to catch a whiff of his scent, thank God, and anyway his nose is so full of cinnamon toast he can hardly smell his own familiar pineapple scent.

“Ye-es,” says the event coordinator, swallowing anxiously. “Sure. Alpha, would, could you--?”

“Liable to take out the whole ballroom, look at him,” says Tony casually, waving a hand. “Hasn’t had one in months, but then, you figure, just kind of builds up that way. Gotta let it out sometime.”

They’re still not doing anything, Natasha and Bruce, she’s still just holding his head cupped in her hands, fingers twitching at his scentpads. Clint leans back and turns to look at them, and then sighs, standing. He slinks close, behind Bruce, and rests his hands on the man’s shoulders, leaning in, over Bruce, and says, clearly, calmly, “Alpha.”

Natasha’s eyes don’t shift from Bruce’s face, but she begins to rumble and Harley shifts because she’s not being quiet or subtle about it. It’s… it’s a lot of rumble, a lot of alpha rumble, too much alpha rumble for these fancy clothes and these fancy people. Too wild, too untamed, it belongs out in _battle_.

“Uh, good Omega, if you would, for the protection of the other guests,” tries the coordinator.

“Oh, no, not me,” says Tony, shaking his head, “if you want protection, you want to talk to the big guy,” he shakes a thumb at Steve. Harley notes that he’s draining his wine glass quickly, practically chugging it, or, wait, that’s not _his_ , that’s Bruce’s, Tony’s is already empty.

“Omega,” says Steve, his voice dangerously low. 

“What? Oh. Do you want me to handle this, then?” asks Tony, blinking innocently at Steve. Steve shoots him a glare and he turns to the event coordinator and says, “Sorry, what did you need?”

“Can you take them? And leave?” whines the coordinator, gesturing quickly to the threesome.

“Can I take them and leave,” muses Tony. Steve begins to rumble, quietly, so quietly Harley can feel it but not really, not really hear it. Tony drains the glass and stands, setting it down with a clink. The rest of the table stands with him, as one, because you stand when your Omega stands, yes. “Yes. Yes, I can,” says Tony brightly. “Alpha?”

“Let’s go,” growls Steve, and the surrounding tables flinch, reaching for their bags, their partner’s hands, their phones, before their hindbrains release them and they flush, realizing he didn’t mean _them_.

Clint is lifting Bruce up, sliding Bruce’s arms around Natasha, pulling on their extra hands, “C’mon, loves,” he croons, “C’mon, Alpha’s calling, says we can do this, we can absolutely do this, gotta leave, first, though, go to the den, don’t you want to den up?”

“Den,” says Bruce huskily. “Yes.”

“Yes,” agrees Natasha, her eyes wild on Bruce’s face. “Yes, den, omega, den.”

“Yes,” agrees Clint, “so this way, this way, follow me, follow your beta, c’mon.” He tugs them, just a bit, eyeing up the exit they must take.

Steve grabs Harley by the scruff and growls at Sam, “Him, too.” Sam immediately scruffs Peter, who yelps, but submits to the beta, submits to being dragged along like a naughty pup, which, okay, maybe they are? Maybe they are naughty? Steve sure seems to think so, anyway, he’s boiling with angry apple pie, which mixes actually kind of okay with all the sexed-up cinnamon wafting through the air. Harley hangs in his grasp as Tony chatters on, saying goodbyes with a wicked sense of humor and delight, clearly enjoying his role in this show.

“Victory heat,” he confides to an unknown omega woman as they pass, all wicked smiles and delighted eyes, “You know how it is.”

“Oh,” she says faintly, squirming as they pass. Harley spares a moment to smile brightly at her, because this is hilarious, this is actually hilarious, watching the waves of people squirming, because if there’s slick sliding down his thigh, at least he’s wearing black pants, there’s gotta be, oh my God, so many people in their wake, so many poor omega females, he can hear the rumble of alphas filling the ballroom behind them, it’s hilarious, it’s so funny. He glances behind him at Sam with Peter, to share the joke, and Peter shakes his head, scowling. Well, that’s one of the things they’re just going to disagree about, decides Harley. This is hilarious.

“Won’t find it so funny when we get out to the car,” growls Alpha and Harley’s face abruptly falls, remembering that this is the _cover story_. Oh, shit. Alpha shakes him a little, hand tightening, and they’re still in public so Harley doesn’t whine, but he does bend his head a little, a show of submission, and he knows the amusement has dropped entirely from his scent. His stomach twists, and he’s not quite sure what to do with all of these nerves he suddenly possesses. It can’t, it can’t possibly be worse than Mr. Abrahams, can it?

When the door shuts on the limo, and Steve whirls on him and Peter, seated between Tony and Sam on the long bench opposite him, snarling, Harley concedes, it totally _can_.

~~~

Steve is going to kill them. He thinks this coldly, calculatingly, and he knows which ones he’s going to start with, because Peter is a good pup, and this kind of thing is definitely all Harley’s idea. He’s going to kill Peter first, and make Harley watch, and then he’s going to kill Harley. He’s decided it, he’s Alpha, time to make it so. Tony holds up a single finger, and it arrests Steve’s attention from his desire to throttle Peter first, and Harley next. “Okay, yes, we’ll do that next,” his Omega croons. “But first, could you put the breaks on that?” he says, gesturing down the long bench to the back of the limo, where Natasha has climbed on top of her omega and Clint is slipping his hands up under her dress, trailing up her nearest calf

“Knock it off,” snarls Steve, and all three of them freeze. Little too much alpha there, he realizes. Well, _tough_.

“Sorry, Alpha,” grunts Natasha. “Got a little carried away.”

“Fairbanks, not Naples,” gasps Bruce, “Sorry, Alpha.” Steve sniffs the air once and then raises an eyebrow at his Omega. 

Tony smiles and nods his thanks, “Much better, I can breathe, thank you Bruce.”

“Was that-” asks Harley in a small voice- “I thought, I thought victory heats can’t be stopped?”

Everyone in the car shares a quick glance of amusement. Steve answers Harley, “That’s very true. Can’t stop a victory heat, rips through whole battalions, ‘s why omega males aren’t allowed in any of the armed forces. _That_ ,” he says, gesturing at the three in the back of the car, who are rearranging themselves to sit placidly and patiently, “- _that_ was just an omega male who wanted to show off for an audience.”

“Audience of one,” snorts Clint. He and Bruce share a sardonic look over Natasha’s head.

“I do prefer privacy,” says Bruce mildly, looking out the window. Natasha pats his thigh and squeezes it a little. “Such a good ommy,” she murmurs. “Such a sacrifice you make for your Alpha.”

“That’s all?” squeaks Harley, his jaw dropping. “That was just… that wasn’t a heat?”

Tony smirks at Steve and shakes his head a little, patting the younger male’s thigh in a patronizing fashion. “Kid, he wasn’t even really _showing off_. I took out ballrooms like that and raised the actual birth rate my first year on display. Dad was _ticked._

“He had every right to be,” growls Steve, and Tony’s eyes flicker to his face, a flash of pain quickly concealed. Well, fuck. He better get rid of some of this mad before he actually starts doing damage. “Like _I_ have every right to be,” he growls at the pups, and Tony’s face clears with comprehension and then twists in slightly-less-than-fond exasperation. Steve can hear the _single-track knothead_ comments he’s clearly biting back, but he’s biting them back, so Steve ignores it.

“We didn’t seduce a ballroom full of people into heat,” protests Harley, holding up his hands. Tony snorts and shoots Steve a wickedly amused glance.

Peter sighs, because Peter is a good pup, and says, “Yes, Alpha.”

“Oh,” says Harley, and then, glancing up at Steve, ducks his head and says, “Yes, Alpha,” mimicking Peter’s penitent tone, but clearly still a little bewildered and confused.

“So,” drawls Steve’s Omega, picking at the armrest beside him, squinting back at the three in the backseat, looking everywhere but at the two beside him. “Which one of you is going to explain?”

Peter and Harley exchange glances and then press their lips together, sealing them shut. Clearly both of them think talking is going to be optional. Steve seriously considers just knocking their heads together for a full minute, reaching for the frayed ends of his patience. “You,” he says, pointing a finger at Peter, who shrinks back into Sam, “are supposed to patrol in Queens, pup. Queens. Not New Jersey.”

“Well,” temporizes Peter, which is so unlike him that Steve growls, cutting him short, and even Sam has a look of surprise on his face.

“Try again,” he prompts Peter, to give the pup another chance. Harley shifts, but Tony lays a casual hand on his thigh, calming him with a tap.

“Sorry, Alpha,” folds Peter, after glancing up at Steve’s face for a full second.

“Better,” concedes Steve.

“But people are _dying_ ,” protests Harley.

Steve growls back at him, “Exactly.”

Harley’s chin actually inches up for a second, meeting Steve’s glare with his own, before abruptly dropping to one side in submission, shamefaced.

“Exactly, pup,” growls Steve. “And those people who are dying? Not gonna be either one of you.”

Harley mutters something almost inaudible and Steve doesn’t care about the new millennium, that’s not happening in his pack. He’s read the Omega Charter, there’s nothing in there that excuses what he thinks he just heard. “What?” he growls, leaning forward, because he means to push his point. The pup will submit, by God, or Tony’s joke about putting the fear of Alpha in him won’t seem very funny in an hour or two.

Harley shoots him a glare and Steve can feel his jaw clench. How _dare_ the little omega, how _dare_ he? “I said,” snarls Harley, “I’m not on a _leash_.”

There’s complete silence in the limo for as long as it takes for Steve to take a deep breath and let it out, and then Clint says, clearly, “Holy shit, Harley.”

“Hey, now,” starts Sam, “I think we just need to-”

“No, I’m fascinated,” interrupts Tony, shifting to face Harley, grab his jaw and shake it roughly. “Where’d that come from, pup? You got a death wish I’m not aware of?”

Harley’s eyes are dropped, unable to lift to Tony’s face, Steve can see that through the blinding red fog of rage that surrounds him, all of his instincts screaming suggestions for how to _deal with the defiant pup._ He’s not listening, because if there’s one thing he’s learned since the plane went down, it’s that instincts aren’t usually the best option for navigating this new, chartered world. Modern omegas won’t let instincts be the only justification necessary for all kinds of murder-death-rages that used to be understood, all kinds of things that used to be _accepted_ about alphas. He takes another deep breath, and trusts his Omega, pups are omega business, he trusts Tony, Tony knows about alpha rage, Tony is going to make this better.

“That,” says Tony, spacing the words carefully, giving each one emphasis, “was the first naughty thing I’ve ever heard you say, Harley. And you should be ashamed, because your Alpha doesn’t deserve that, does he?”

He doesn’t. Steve really doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve any of this, tonight. He should have woken up in that nice 1930s apartment and just rolled over and gone right back to sleep. He should have smelled Tony’s heat scent and called a professional alpha. He should have heard Tony talking to Harley with his version of an omega-love sweet tone in his voice and not smiled fondly but run screaming in the other direction. He claws back his anger, boxes it tight, tamps it down, and waits, because Tony’s got this, he trusts his Omega, Tony’s got this.

The limo fills and swamps with ashamed pineapple joining the enraged apple pie as Harley begins to whine in Tony’s tight grip. “No, I don’t think that’s enough, do you?” asks Tony pleasantly, shaking Harley’s chin. “That was a very bad thing to say. That was very bad, pup.” Harley’s eyes are filling with tears, Steve is satisfied to note, and his scent is approaching real distress. “You can do better. You will do better. I am never hearing that again. No one,” he gives Harley two huge shakes on those words, emphatic, and the tears spill over as Harley’s scent slides into real distress, “no one is ever going to hear that out of you ever again, is that clear?”

“Y-yes, Omega,” gasps Harley, when it’s clear the whole limo is waiting for his response. He whines, then, his jaw still gripped in Tony’s heavy hand. Tony tilts his head and says, calmly, “I don’t think you’re sorry enough yet. You don’t _look_ sorry enough yet.”

Steve tilts his head, because this is new. Not that Peter ever usually gets off that much sass, but Tony’s had to correct him before, and once the tears are flowing that’s enough, the Omega stops, and the restitution begins. Tony’s not stopping, and that means something else is happening, something new.

“P-please, ‘mega,” whimpers Harley. “I am, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“On your knees, then,” hisses Tony. “Go say sorry to Alpha. Do it right, pup.”

Oh. Oh, that does help, thinks Steve, feeling his anger slide away, slip away, easy to set aside now. He feels light-headed in its absence, able to follow Harley’s movements as Tony releases his jaw and he tumbles forward, clumsy in distress, to slide on his knees across the tight aisle and kneel before Steve, head ducked, whimpering in distress. “S-sorry, Alpha,” whimpers Harley, hands wringing in front of him. “S-sorry.”

Steve tilts his head, able to think, now that the rage is gone, now that his vision is clear. He considers what he knows of Harley. “How old were you when you lost your alpha,” he asks the pup quietly.

“F-five,” whimpers Harley, keeping his eyes down like a good, naughty little penitent pup. “F-five, Alpha.”

Steve hums while he thinks, watching Harley whimper and sniffle back more tears, although that doesn’t seem to help much, he notes. “And your mom’s a beta?”

“Yes, Alpha,” sobs Harley quickly, still not looking up, all signs of that earlier defiance gone from his posture.

“You have any alpha teachers at your school?” asks Steve, because he has the shape of what’s going on, but he can hear from Sam and Clint’s intake of breath that they’re just catching it, too. Tony knows, Steve knows that he does, because this was all him, and it’s perfect, Steve realizes. Just what the pup needs. He can’t believe he didn’t see it before. He raises his gaze to Tony’s eyes briefly, just to confirm, and he sees what’s there and nods, so that Tony relaxes a little. Hand-off complete, Steve’s on-board, _good Omega._

Harley shakes his head and then corrects himself, “One. One, Mr. Abrahams.”

“And lemme guess,” drawls Steve, “He taught gym.”

“Yes, Alpha,” agrees Harley, wincing.

“And he was fat,” laughs Clint. “I know he was, he’d _have_ to be. Oh my God, Natasha, that’s-” She shushes him before Steve has to, because as ridiculous as the picture is, it explains so much, so much about Harley and how he is. It’s nothing to laugh at, really.

“He _was_ fat,” whispers Harley, shoulders hunching a little at Clint’s laughter.

“Yeah,” says Steve, and then lets silence drag on Harley just a little bit longer, round his shoulders in submission just a little bit more.

“You have any friends with alpha dads?” asks Steve quietly.

“Would need friends first,” mutters Harley, and then he wipes his nose with the cuff of his sleeve. He’s pitiful, like this, thinks Steve. Pitiful and soft and so omega, so completely omega, and lost, a lost little omega pup.

“Ah,” says Steve. Harley squirms, on his knees, uncomfortable. Good.

Steve surges forward, grabbing Harley by the neck and squeezing, just a little, thumb pressed to the pup’s scentpad. “So this is new, then,” he growls.

The air of the limo is thick with terrified pineapples and pissed off apple pie. 

“Yes, Alpha,” chokes Harley, and his hands raise up but _don’t touch Steve_ , falling back down after their first abortive motion.

“Yes, Alpha,” repeats Steve, pleased, because touching Steve right now would have been a very bad decision. “Good. That’s a good start. Alphas are _not omegas_ , boy.”

Harley gasps, choking, trying so hard not to struggle, Steve can see it, trying so hard to be a good pup. There’s good breeding there, under all the bad training, and Steve knows what to do with that, he’s _mated_ to that, does he _ever_ know what to do with that. “We’re not _safe_ ,” Steve snarls lowly. “We’re not _tame_ , do you hear me, boy?”

Harley chokes, trying to nod, trying to gasp, and Steve releases him enough that he can draw a breath and wheeze out, “Yes, Alpha.”

“Yes, Alpha,” repeats Steve slowly, watching Harley struggle not to struggle. “I think you’re getting it, now. They teach you any self-defense against alphas in that school of yours?”

Harley clearly doesn’t want to tell him no, and that’s a good instinct, Steve wants to reward that instinct, so he only lets the pup struggle for a few seconds before asking, “So you haven’t had any self-defense then, you’re entirely untrained?”

“Y-yes, Alpha,” gasps Harley gratefully, tears running down his cheeks, eyes fully lowered.

“Well, that begins right here, right now. You’re an omega,” Steve spits, like that isn’t increasingly more obvious with every passing second. “And that’s a good thing. That’s a rare thing, whelp. I like it, I like that you’re an omega, so does everyone else in the Pack. We like that you’re an omega.” Harley loses control of his breathing entirely, sobbing a little, and Steve lets him have some more air, pressing hard on his scent pad to keep him aware of his own fear, let the fear scent keep him where Steve wants him for this chat. 

“But you,” continues Steve, “are not an _alpha_. And even if you were, which, you’re _not_ , Harley,” he shakes the boy, just to freshen up that fear scent a little, and is instantly rewarded “-even if you were, you still wouldn’t be _me._ ” Harley sobs, the sound wet and rough and raspy.

Steve considers the picture in front of him. Peter has sunk so far back into Sam that he’s half-under the beta. Tony is at ease, relaxed, approval clear in his posture, his face and what little of his scent Steve can find in the air around him. Steve doesn’t look for the three in the back, they’ll be fine, even Clint was following what was happening before. Harley is red faced and terrified and Steve is pretty sure if he doesn’t wrap it up soon, there’s going to be a puddle on the floor.

“It is not safe,” he tells the pup seriously, “to push me. It is not safe for you to push _any_ alpha, little omega, because we’re not safe like you, we’re not created safe like you, soft and sweet like you, but it is especially not safe for you to push _me_.”

Harley gasps some more, fresh fear twining around the last faint scent of pineapple defiance still lingering in the air.

“So when your Omega tells you to get on your knees and apologize,” Steve growls lowly, “you remember all of that, you hear me? I don’t care which alpha he sends you to, you remember what I just said, you _remember_ it, pup.” He releases Harley’s throat, and Harley gasps air, choking on the sudden rush of oxygen, hands staying down, down by his side, good pup, good instincts, good breeding, there. “And you try to remember it before you have to say your sorries, too,” Steve adds coldly. “If you can.”

There’s quiet then, as Harley gasps and chokes and lets out sobs that he didn’t have the oxygen for before. Peter is whimpering softly, and Sam pats his thighs with one broad hand. It’s a good reminder for him, too, Steve realizes. Not that Peter has any problems with it, usually, growing up with Ben in-house like he did. But it’s a good reminder, anyway, a little fright to remind the pup that Harley doesn’t always have all the information he needs.

“Try again,” growls Tony, as Harley’s sobs quiet down to whimpers. “Try again, do it right, Harley.”

“Remember,” grunts Steve, as Harley shivers and creeps forward, hands resting on the ground in front of him.

“I’m so- so- sorry,” sobs Harley. “I- I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have, I wasn’t- I’m so sorry, Alpha. I’m so sorry.”

“Better,” says Steve. He lifts up Harley’s chin, and it’s not a shock that the pup closes his eyes tight, every single muscle screaming submission, submission, no more challenge anywhere in that frame or face. “And if I want to put a leash on you?” he asks, curious.

“Put it on,” splutters Harley. “You can, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Alpha. Put it on. _Please_.”

Tony raises an amused eyebrow at Steve and rolls his eyes. Steve grins back at him. He lets Harley go and considers the mess of a whining pup for a moment longer. “No,” he says, serious again, pitching his voice to be heard over the pup’s quiet cries. “I like you just the way you are. I don’t want to put a leash on you. I want you to _listen_ and _be safe_ , Harley.” It’s not too much to ask, he thinks with exasperation. It’s two things. Harley can handle two things, surely.

“We all want that,” agrees Tony, backing him up. “You think you can manage _listen_ and _be_ _safe_ right now, pup?”

Harley nods his head, wiping his nose and eyes on his jacket sleeves. Steve winces. 

“Take that jacket off,” says Tony, mildly, “it’s a Tom Ford, not a napkin, you savage.”

Harley quickly shoulders out of it, not moving from his knees, Steve notes, and then folds the jacket in front of him, awkward again. Steve lifts it out of his hands, tugging gently, and isn’t surprised when Harley releases it quickly, at the first sign that Steve wants it, because there’s good breeding there, in Harley, and it shows through every time. “Okay,” soothes Steve, dropping the jacket on the seat beside him, and watches Harley take the first deep clear breath he has since that nasty defiance scent had filled the limo air. “Okay, now, pup. I think I can accept that apology. You want up, you want to be comforted, too, or you want to just sit there and think about it some more?”

Harley shakes his head, and isn’t that just like an omega, to snarl and kick up a fuss just to abdicate all control, all choice. Steve’s real familiar with that pattern, actually. Real familiar. Steve makes the call, pulling Harley up, lifting the pup onto his lap and wrapping arms around him, letting him rest near Steve’s scent pads. He may not have a male omega’s ability to fill a ballroom with scent, but he thinks fiercely, _Safe omega. You’re safe, I’m here._ It would overload the kid to rumble, so he keeps that in check, but slowly, slowly, the pup’s breathing even out as he breathes Steve’s safety scent.

Steve shifts, ready to move on, and points a finger at Peter, who whimpers and fear-scents immediately. “What _exactly_ did you two think you were doing, chasing an assassin around New Jersey?” he growls.

~~~

Tony’s never wanted pups the way Bruce and Peter and Harley, his only real male omega friends, clearly want them. Maybe it’s just that he was waiting for Steve, frozen in ice, maybe it’s that his AIs are his babies, maybe his dad fucked him up in more ways than previously explored. Take your pick, Tony’s well aware he’s an anomaly.

He likes them, don’t get him wrong. If Steve ever gets over his horror at the possibility of super serum omegas, Tony’s _ready_. But raising whelps? Not really anything Tony’s been super excited about. 

So he’s not exactly thrilled when he realizes he’s being a hypocrite and judging the fuck out of Harley’s parents, who are clearly trash human beings, both of them. The alpha, because who the _fuck_ abandons a kid genius in Rose Hill, Tennessee. And the beta, because obviously she’s got alpha issues but sweet fuck, that doesn’t mean you don’t _socialize your kid_. Tony doesn’t know much about parenting, but he’s pretty sure socializing is like, the bare minimum of what you’re supposed to do with them.

Tony hates it when people try to offer him engineering advice when they know nothing. It’s actually one of the reasons he’s bonded to Steve. Steve has issues in a list a mile long, but he’s never once interrupted Tony while Tony was verbally walking through an issue with one of his projects to offer his advice. Not once. That’s really fucking rare, in Tony’s experience. A sink breaks down and suddenly everyone has an advanced plumbing degree, that’s much more his experience.

So he’s not thrilled that he thinks he can spot exactly where Ma Keener went off the fucking rails and ignored her son’s basic survival, letting him grow up without any real, sustained and substantive contact with _40% of the population_. He’s not thrilled with himself, but not being thrilled with himself is, well, it’s like 9 PM on a Thursday, actually, he does that all the time. He’s spent most of his life not thrilled with himself, and he’s survived it so far. 

When Harley called him, frantic about his own slick, he hadn’t really thought much of it, hadn’t thought _Jesus, where is your mom,_ because, well, male omega. They’re rare and weird and he vividly remembers attempting to shove TP up there to staunch the flow thinking it was like, extreme diarrhea, whimpering and hoping Jarvis would pick up on the other end and _know what to do_. 

Okay, so Howard definitely fucked him up a little bit in expected ways, too.

It wasn’t a shock, then, to hear Harley’s panic and soothe it over the phone, to be Jarvis, to get to be Jarvis for someone else. It’s not like there weren’t signs of the potential for male omega in Harley, in the decade Tony’s known him. Male omegas go one of two ways, either they’re born and there’s something wrong, something that makes them drool in public and never develop much past that, if they even survive infancy, or they’re basically reincarnates of Alexander the Great and could easily take over the world with a big enough horse, some high-quality rope, and a sexy sidekick. Very few of the registered male omegas in the world fit in the second category. Of the ones that do, most devote their significant brain energies and extreme competence to raising ridiculously enormous litters of children. Tony’s got no beef with them, they all seem beyond content and fully challenged by their choice, and not one of them ever has a bad thing to say about him and his choices, which is a relief.

So finding a kid genius in the sticks of Hickville, USA, a kid genius who’s sassy and smart and helpful, who can actually keep up with Tony, _adult_ Tony, well, odds were good the kid wasn’t typical, the kid was special. It wasn’t a surprise to hear Harley had started slicking, he’ll admit that. About as much of a non-surprise as it was when Aunt May called him and announced that his protege needed a heat partner, if Tony had any handy, preferably female alpha. That still cracks him up, actually, the way she’d been indignant and determined and had demanded, like she had a right to any female alphas Tony had laying around. 

Neither pup being special had surprised Tony.

Steve agreeing to Pack them, also not a surprise. The man is old-fashioned in some of the worst ways, but also in some of the best. Tony didn’t even have to hint that he’d like to, Steve just watched him with the pups and quietly got everything ready around the edges of their lives. Aunt May is a formidable beta, but she’s not stupid, and she wants Peter safe. Peter is so fucking adorable, he’s precious, and he’s rare, rarer yet with the spider inside his DNA, rare enough that he _needs_ alphas, needs an Alpha in a way no one has ever needed an Alpha before. 

And not just any alpha would work, not for Aunt May, no, not some doctor she knows, but the best alpha. Steve, of course she’d pick Steve, who wouldn’t pick Steve? _Alphas_ pick Steve. Aunt May invaded and set about convincing Steve to take Peter into the Pack, whether or not it’s a real pack or just a pseudo-pack. (It’s a real pack, it’s totally a real pack, Steve wouldn’t actually settle for less, they just have some really restrictive rules about public display and privacy, that’s all) 

Aunt May wanted, and she _got_ , and Peter was theirs.

Harley’s mom, though, Harley’s mom broke Tony’s heart. Tony’s not a squishy omega, he’s seen stuff, he’s made of stern stuff. Howard’s son straight through to the bone. But Harley’s mom hadn’t even- Tony had to call _her_ , the next day, at work. And she’d just sighed and said, “Well, if that’s what Harley wants,” like it genuinely didn’t matter to her. There’s a long list of people Tony can’t stand to even look at, and she’s at the top, right at the top. She signed the paperwork that day, she didn’t even call a lawyer to look it over, and Tony was vicious in that paperwork, cut everything, made Harley _his_. And she didn’t even care. She just signed it, like it was a fucking field trip permission form instead of Harley’s whole life and wellbeing.

So maybe- it’s not that Tony has a favorite pup, between the two of them, he loves them both and would do anything for them both, all of his lifelong-frustrated, whelpless omega-brain is definitely concentrated on both of his boys. It’s not that he has a favorite, per se, but he definitely has one pup that needs him more right now. 

When he hears Harley’s defiant voice snarl that nasty phrase, at Steve, at the Alpha’s Alpha, he’s shocked, because suddenly, like a lightbulb going off, there’s a cascade of knowledge in his head, and knows exactly what Harley needs. It’s very convenient that it dovetails so nicely with what Steve needs, what will help soothe his Alpha back down, which is a _demonstration of might_ . Tony sets the wheels in motion, relaxing only when Steve gives him the all-clear and he knows Steve _understands_ what Harley needs.

And now they’re here, in the limo, and Peter’s babbling out some explanation while Harley curls in Steve’s lap, penitent and adorable once more, and hopefully schooled permanently in Alpha Survival 101. Tony ignores most of the babble in favor of watching Steve, who had been fucking magnificent, fucking majestic, such a good Alpha, and thinking in a poleaxed way about how super serum omega girl babies would probably just be really fucking cute, in the end. Totally worth whatever it does to his waistline. He can buy new suits. A phrase catches his attention, though, and he turns to face Peter and asks, “What? Say that again?”

Peter stutters to a halt mid-sentence and asks, hesitantly, “Uh, which, which part, Omega?” because he’s such a sweet pup, he really is, so eager to please.

“The part- the name you found,” says Tony.

“Oh, uh, Winter Soldier,” supplies Peter. Harley twitches but doesn’t add anything as Tony repeats the name twice.

“I know that from somewhere,” Tony muses. He does, too. It’s on the tip of his tongue where he knows it from. His brain races, quickly searching mnemonics and memories, getting closer and closer until he sits back, all the breath knocked out of him. “Oh.”

“That’s not good,” announces Bruce warily. “That’s, that’s not a good sound.”

“Omega?” asks Steve quietly, respectfully, and Tony meets his eyes, shocked. He can feel the lump rise in his throat, and he presses it down, back, because he’s Howard Stark’s son and he won’t whine like that, there are pups present. The driver could be listening.

“He killed my mom,” Tony tells Steve simply, proud of the way it comes out, matter-of-fact, simple, unwavering. Peter gasps, and Tony blinks, and then realizes there’s wetness on his cheeks.

Steve shifts Harley, not letting go, Tony’s relieved to see, because the pup’s not ready for that yet, he’s still kinda clingy. He reaches forward, and Tony feels his breathing hitch as his Alpha hauls Tony to kneel in front of him.

“He- he killed my-” repeats Tony, and Steve holds his face close, eyes searching Tony’s, listening intently. 

“He did?” returns Steve, and there’s murder in it. There’s more murder in his voice than just Tony’s mom, more rage there, a hundred deaths, if Tony wants them. 

Tony shudders, to hear it, to be offered so much, and closes his eyes for just one second, willing the pup inside to stop howling, just for once, stop howling for the omega who isn’t coming, okay? She’s not coming. 

When he opens them, Steve is still there, eyes kind and wrathful, both extremes in the same gaze, cupping his face, fingers resting just below Tony’s scent pads. Which Tony appreciates, that Steve knows how to be discreet, not forcing him to share anything with the whole world. Tony would climb mountains for this man, would fight through such bullshit, would do everything in his life exactly the same way, self-loathing and Howard and all, if it meant Steve would be his, again and again, forever. He looks up into Steve’s face and knows, beyond doubt, that if he wants this man dead, this Winter Soldier, the man is already dead.

“We don’t- last year, when SHIELD fell, Peggy said he was probably Hydra,” he says weakly. “Peggy, the file, the file on my parents, he was probably Hydra,” Steve breathes in because he loves a good Hydra hunt, Hydra hunting is his favorite sport, but the next part is really important, so Tony has to get it through to him, “but not, not voluntarily, Steve. There’s evidence, he’s like Nat, he didn’t, he didn’t want to.”

“There was a Winter Soldier,” says Natasha slowly, her accent so thick that Tony almost doesn’t recognize her voice, almost doesn’t hear the words and make sense of them. “Tony. Tony, I know that name. There was one. He was called the cold soldier, the ice soldier, ledyanoy soldat, Tony. He is real. I have touched him.”

Tony turns to stare at her in horror as she leans forward and tells them both, in a quiet, intense voice, “And it is true, what was done to him, I have not seen any other person survive. They _wiped_ him, Tony. Alpha, he was not- it was as if his body was empty. They would wake him, I helped, once, a small girl, they would wake him, and give him his mission. They said to watch, to see, to see how they wanted me to be, a blade for the glory of the Red Room. He was…” she swallows. “He was merciful. Fast, so fast. I was in awe. But then they took him back.” She shakes her head, falling back between the two men, drawing Bruce closer, shifting her weight into Clint. “And they froze him, Alpha. The ice soldier, ledyanoy soldat. Warmed only to blood temperature and only warm long enough to spill blood,” she concludes in a whisper. She looks up at Steve, eyes shocked, pupils blown wide with the terrified memories of her youth, and says shortly, “He screamed.”

There’s nothing but silence in the limo, and then Sam says, “And you two went chasing after him?” in an incredulous tone of voice. “Without backup? Without talking to anyone on the team? Are you serious?”

Peter whines a little, from behind Sam. Harley whimpers, clinging tighter to Steve’s bicep as Tony scents enraged and protective apple pie again, breaking through the fog of grief and horror that has him trapped, on his knees, head in Steve’s hands. “Shh,” croons Steve to all three of them. “Shh, no more. I’m here. I got it. I got you.” Peter’s whining cuts off, but Harley gets out three or four more apologies before Steve blows out a breath and rumbles a little. And then, with a wry glance of apology at Tony, he rumbles a lot, but Tony doesn’t care. For once he welcomes it, welcomes the comfort, because it hurts so much, it all hurts so much.

The rumble, and the softening it brings behind it, glides through Tony, settling the little pup inside. He floats in it, hanging in his bonded’s hands, at rest, for the remainder of the ride home.

**Author's Note:**

> So, like nobody is asking for more but my muse is churning out more. Sorry not sorry, maybe someone in the future will be like, THANKS SO MUCH I LOVED IT, and then my muse will turn to me and be like, "SEE? *HE* LIKED IT." and that'll justify everything.
> 
> Or not. 
> 
> Honestly, I'm just having so much fucking fun.


End file.
